


A Little Luck of Our Own

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-22
Updated: 2009-04-17
Packaged: 2018-09-03 18:37:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8725822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Sam's at the end of his rope





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Warning1: Sam and Dean are neither brothers nor hunters  
>  Warning2: Mention of suicide

-

 

A Little Luck of Our Own

 

-

 

 

Sam peered over the edge of the roof and blinked blearily. It looked a long way down, which was a good thing because he didn’t want to fuck up killing himself the way he’d fucked up the rest of his life.

 

And the thought of yet more medical bills to pay made him laugh so much he started wheezing. He took another swig of alcohol. He wasn’t sure what it was, only that it had been the cheapest bottle of spirits on the shelf.

 

He leaned back out over the drop. It was a long way down. Abruptly, he shivered in the cold dark air. He felt weird and alone and too far away from himself. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do this.

 

But what else could he do. And he been fighting so long to keep their heads above water, now it was all over and he could let go, the idea was almost seductive. Just dropping away into space and letting it all end. He was so very, very tired.

 

“Hey.”

 

The voice startled Sam so badly he nearly toppled right over the balustrade.

 

“Hey,” said the voice again and hands were suddenly hauling Sam back from the edge. He let it happen, way too tired to put up a fight.

 

“Man, you look terrible.”

 

Sam glared blindly in the direction of the voice.

 

“Seriously, and what the hell are you drinking, it smells like paint stripper.” A hand detached the bottle from Sam’s limp fingers. “Blerk,” the voice broke up in a hacking cough.

 

Sam scrubbed at his eyes until the world came back in focus. A man was crouched beside him, one hand around the neck of the bottle, the other was firmly clutching the scruff of Sam’s shirt. 

 

“Jesus Christ, it is paint stripper. And you’ve been drinking this? Are you trying for alcohol poisoning in preference to messy death on the sidewalk.”

 

“Hey,” said Sam weakly.

 

“He speaks,” said the stranger. He cocked his head at Sam, “Are you going to come with me quietly or am I going to have to knock you out?”

 

“I don’t need your help.”

 

“Don’t much care,” said the stranger bluntly. “The fact is I’ve got plans that do not involve being questioned by cops investigating a messy death on the sidewalk.”

 

“Nobody’d care,” said Sam listlessly.

 

“Are you stupid? Cops always care about dead bodies at a University. You want to make sure nobody’s bothered by your demise jump off one of tenements in the Kemptown district.”

 

“No.” Sam shook his head stubbornly. “I’ve been stuck there all my life, I’m not dying there too.”

 

“Oh, well as long as you’re got aspirations. Now come on, move it.”

 

“No.” Sam wrapped an arm around a friendly girder.

 

The stranger squeezed his arm somewhere near the elbow and Sam’s whole arm went numb, dropping to his side.

 

“What the hell?” he demanded.

 

“I told you,” said the stranger, “I don’t have time for this. Come on.” He shifted his body until his shoulder was under Sam’s, then jerked to his feet, bringing Sam up with him.

 

“Damn,” he said, “you’re a tall one. It’s a good job you’re still semi-coherent. It’d be a bitch trying to carry you.”

 

“Hey,” said Sam, feeling put upon. Then he remembered, “Hey, where’d my drink go?”

 

“You cannot possibly be whining about your godawful paint stripper. Look, I will be finished here in forty-eight hours. Then I will buy you a bottle of whatever you want so you can whack yourself in style. How does that sound?”

 

“Two bottles,” bargained Sam. He was a bit fuzzy on exactly what they were arguing about but two had to be better than one, right?

 

“Okay, okay, geez. Two bottles. But you have to promise to try and walk.”

 

“Alright,” Sam agreed, magnanimous in victory. He obediently did his best to put one foot in front of the other as the ground bucked and heaved beneath him. The last thing he remembered was hearing the stranger’s voice,

 

“Aw fuck, looks like I’ll be carrying you after all.”


	2. Chapter 2

-

 

Sam woke up feeling sick and head-achy. He whimpered miserably because getting up just seemed to require more strength than his tired limbs possessed.

 

“Oh,” said a voice. “It is alive, I was wondering.”

 

Some deeply buried part of Sam started sending urgent messages that he needed to wake up and deal with whoever this was. He managed to one arm under himself and lever himself about a couple of inches off the bed before effort was too much for him and he collapsed again.

 

“Murffle,” he moaned into the pillow.

 

“If you say so.” Soft footsteps padded across the carpet towards him. “But personally, as cute as the sick kitten impression is, I’d just as soon you got better and got out. So sit up and take your medicine.”

 

Sam tried to grind himself into the safety of the mattress but implacable hands turned him over, twisted him into a sitting position and propped him up against the head board. A mug was pushed into his hand and his fingers were pressed against the cool china until they gripped it automatically.

 

“Wazzit?” he tried to ask.

 

“You do not have any room to ask questions, paint-stripper boy. But as a matter of fact it’s water. Anything else would have you upchucking and that is definitely off the agenda for today.”

 

A vague memory twisted through Sam’s mind of choking over the toilet bowl while the implacable hands kept him from falling in.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, concentrating on the mug of water.

 

“You can make it up to me later. Now stop staring and actually drink your water. I’m guessing there’s a brain under that thatch of hair and it’d be good if it started ticking over some time soon.”

 

A hand clamped around his and forced the mug towards his mouth. Sam started swallowing in sheer self-defense.

 

“Better,” said the stranger. “Now do you feel up to eating something? I have some left-over pizza.”

 

Sam curled one arm uneasily around his stomach. But being dangled in front of his eyes was a half eaten pizza crust. His insides gurgled happily at the thought of dry solids and Sam suddenly realised he was starving. He grabbed for the pizza and started chewing happily.

 

“My mistake,” said the stranger. “Clearly not a kitten but a puppy.”

 

“Huh,” Sam glanced up from gnawing on his pizza crust.

 

“Never mind,” the stranger waved a dismissive hand.

 

Sam just stared, caught by his first glimpse of the stranger. He wasn’t as tall as Sam, few people were, but he was tall and solid. The sense memory of being held up by those strong shoulders flashed through him and Sam had the weird urge to collapse all over the stranger and just let that sturdy body support him. The stranger was watching him with careful, considering green eyes that seemed to look straight through him. Sam ducked his head and turned back to his pizza.

 

Two pizza crusts, four Advil and three mugs of water later, Sam’s head was drooping and he was thinking longingly of stretching back out on the soft bed. Then the hands were on him again shifting him so he was lying down and pulling the comforter over him.

 

Pride made him grunt a vague protest and push back against the hands. Not too hard though, because he didn’t want them to go away.

 

“I don’t want to hear it,” said the stranger. “You try and move and it will all come straight back up. Which will make a mess. Which will be annoying. And you’ve already been annoying enough for at least three people.”

 

“Humph,” sighed Sam as his sore head relaxed back into the cool pillow. A hand ran softly across his forehead.

 

“Go to sleep, puppy.”

 

Sam did.


	3. Chapter 3

-

 

Sam opened his eyes cautiously. It was dark outside the window, the light in the room came from a lamp on a table in the corner. The stranger sat there, a black shadow bent over a laptop.

 

While his body still felt delicate and sorry for itself, Sam’s head, at least, was clear. His memories of the night before had fallen into something almost coherent, but they seemed more like a film strip than something that had actually happened. He was so numb that, although he knew his dark thoughts were still there, he couldn’t feel them.

 

He gritted his teeth, he was so spacey it was like he was trying to manipulate a puppet instead of his own body, and managed to lever himself into a sitting position.

 

The stranger spun around his seat and there was a bright flash of a smile.

 

“Hey, you’re awake. You want something to eat?”

 

Sam had to think about that. He was hungry but the idea of eating was an off-putting one.

 

“Eggs,” said the stranger decisively. “Eggs’ll fix you right up. Soft-boiled okay? Hey, you mind if I turn the light on?”

 

“Uh no, and uh soft-boiled sounds fine.” Sam wasn’t really keeping with the rapid-fire conversation.

 

“Great.”

 

The bright flare of the lights had dark spots dancing before Sam’s eyes and he had to blink hard to clear them.

 

When he could focus again, he took in his surroundings warily. It seemed to be a pretty typical motel room. Two beds, a TV, and a table tucked into a corner that the stranger was using as a desk. There was a duffle bag dumped at the foot of the other bed and a small heap of presumably dirty laundry wedged against the wall.

 

The stranger grinned at him.

 

“You want three?”

 

“Um. Maybe?” Sam wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to.

 

Green eyes rolled, but the stranger said,

 

“Three it is.”

 

He picked up a box of eggs, which answered that question, and started to carefully drop eggs into a small electronic kettle. Sam’s curiosity snagged. A kettle wouldn’t boil long enough to cook an egg. He couldn’t help asking,

 

“How does that even work?”

 

“What? Oh the kettle. Winchester special.” He turned the kettle so the handle pointed towards Sam. Squinting, Sam saw a thick strip of blue tape had been stuck across the on switch to stop the automatic cut-off and keep the water boiling.

 

“You couldn’t use an electric saucepan?”

 

“Are you criticizing my catering arrangements? Because I can go to the dinner down the street and bring you back some nice greasy bacon.”

 

Sam swallowed hard as his stomach flopped over queasily.

 

“You really are turning green. I’ve never seen anybody do that before.” The stranger sounded delighted by his discovery. 

 

Sam attempted to glower death. 

 

The stranger just grinned, “For future reference, you probably work that look better when you’re not hungover as hell.”

 

If Sam had the energy he’d do something about the chirpy smirk on the stranger’s face. Instead he concentrated on looking as pathetic as possible.

 

“Oh God, puppy eyes. What the hell do you want? I’m already making you breakfast.”

 

Sam blinked because the stranger _was_ cooking him breakfast and that made zero sense.

 

“Actually man, after all that water you made me drink, I need to use the facilities.”

 

“Alright. You okay to stand up? I don’t need you falling over and concussing yourself on top of everything else.”

 

“I’m fine,” said Sam, although he wasn’t quite sure it was true.

 

The stranger clearly didn’t believe him either because he came over, helped Sam haul himself to his feet and directed his stagger towards the bathroom.

 

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” Sam insisted, because privacy was becoming an issue.

 

“Okay,” the stranger looked doubtful, “but you’re eggs are nearly done so be quick.”

 

Sam shut the bathroom door. After thinking about for a second he clicked the lock into place. He had no idea what the deal was and until he had a closer handle on the stranger’s plans, he wanted security while he pissed.

 

Not that it wasn’t pretty much a case of after the horse had bolted. Sam had been so out of it the stranger could have done anything he wanted. Although the available evidence seemed to suggest that what the stranger wanted was to put Sam to bed and make him eggs. Which yes, was very weird.

 

As he leant over the sink to wash his hands he saw his face in the mirror and winced. Grief had left his eyes red and sore with dark patches beneath them like bruises. His skin had a dead waxy look and clung to the contours of his skull. Limp, dirty hair finished off his look. Frankly Sam was surprised the stranger hadn’t taken him straight to the knacker’s yard.

 

A hand slamming into the bathroom door brought him back to himself.

 

“Hey,” yelled the stranger, “come on out of there, your food’s ready.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Sam shouted back. “Geez, I’ve only been a minute.” He washed his hands and splashed water on his face, which made him feel more alert although it didn’t improve his appearance any.

 

The door banged again.

 

“I said, okay!” He scrubbed at his face with the towel, took a deep breath and opened the door.

 

The stranger was right there, fist poised to knock again. He took an awkward step backwards under the force of Sam’s glare.

 

“Hey,” he smiled anxiously, “you need to eat them while they’re hot.”

 

“It’s just eggs,” said Sam, exasperated. 

 

The stranger morphed his face into shocked outrage, “Show some appreciation, I don’t cook for just anyone you know.” He let a bit of a grin peek out then, as if he wasn’t sure Sam could tell he was just messing with him.

 

“I don’t think using a kettle counts as cooking.” 

 

“It totally counts. You can cook pretty much anything in a kettle. Though soup kinda trashes the kettle. Oh, and not fries. I tried that once when I was ten. The element set fire to the oil and the whole thing went up. Man, I thought Dad was going to kill me.” 

 

He shook his head and then shoved at Sam, “Here, eat your breakfast.”

 

Sam obediently sat down. His three eggs were sitting in a coffee cup, there was a saucer of saltine crackers and a glass of water. He picked up a teaspoon and started to neatly decapitate one of his eggs. 

 

The stranger slung himself down into the corner seat and attacked his own eggs, gutting them, dumping the insides on one of the crackers and swallowing them down in two quick bites.

 

The stranger was licking his fingers clean with messy swipes of his tongue while Sam was still scraping out his first shell.

 

“Coffee,” the stranger said briskly, pushing himself to his feet.

 

Sam watched him absently. He kept eating but the food was starting to stick in his throat. He slumped in his chair, the numbness was fading and the fuck-up that was his life was coming back to him in gory technicolor.

 

“So,” the stranger’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder and made him flinch, “since you screwed up my job, I’m thinking we need a new plan.”

 

“Job?” parroted Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

  
Author's notes: We return to our regularly schedueled programing since I have de-Westlifed my brain  


* * *

-

-

 

“You don’t think I was on the law department roof for the pleasure of hauling around your drunk ass, do you?”

 

“I guess not,” said Sam slowly. He turned around to face the other man because his sputtering brain wasn’t coming up with any reason to be on the law department’s roof at stupid o’clock in the morning.

 

“So,” the stranger jabbed a finger at him. “New plan required.”

 

Sam’s Mom always used to say that his need to know would get him in trouble but Sam couldn’t stop himself asking,

 

“Uh, it might help if I knew what the old plan was?”

 

“Professor Kesselburg,” the stranger flung himself back into his chair and smirked.

 

“Oh God,” Sam’s lip twisted, “you’re not one of his insane groupies, are you?”

 

“Nope.” He smiled wide and happy. “I think the good Professor is a pathetic waste of oxygen.”

 

“Really? I thought everyone adored Professor Kesselburg?”

 

“Except you.”

 

“Well yeah,” Sam admitted.

 

“And the cutest senior in his pre-law seminar class each year.”

 

Sam had to think about that for a second and then sat up abruptly, “You mean he’s done that to other people, to his _students_.”

 

“Pretty much.”

 

“Fucking bastard.”

 

“Pretty much.” The stranger shifted in his chair, “I take it you aren’t one of students? I didn’t think I recognised you.”

 

“No,” said Sam shortly, glaring at his hands.

 

“So, what is your name by the way? I can’t keep calling you paint-stripper boy. Well actually, I can.”

 

Sam looked up at the stranger. Glinting green eyes seemed to suggest he’d only be too happy with that. Sam shook his head quickly, “Please don’t, I’m Sam.”

 

“Dean.” The stranger, Dean, gave him a quick wave of his hand. “So, Sam, if you’re not one of his students..?”

 

“I wanted to be one. I wanted to be one so badly. All my life I wanted to go to college, be a lawyer,” Sam cut himself off because his ruined dreams were too private to spread out under a stranger’s feet. “My mom was sick and I needed to stay close, so this college was my only choice. To come here I needed a scholarship and I needed to go part-time.”

 

“And you asked the _heroic_ Professor for help.”

 

“Stupid, huh?” It had seemed natural to ask the crusading Professor Kesselburg for help. Sam had admired the man since he had poured over the Professor’s first write-up in the newspapers.

 

“And he?” Dean’s voice had gone all soft and gentle. Sam shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably because it wasn’t like that at all.

 

“Invited me back to his place to go over my paperwork and propositioned me over coffee. Said I had a half-decent brain but my pretty face would get me further.”

 

One of Dean’s legs was twitching. That agitation on his behalf made Sam smile as he continued,

 

“That’s when I punched him out.”

 

“Awesome!” Dean bounced in place. “Way to go Sammy.”

 

The whole-hearted enthusiasm made Sam laugh out loud, 

 

“I think I was more mad that my hero turned out to be a complete sleaze than anything else. Of course if I’d thought about it, I’d have realised I should have taken him up on it. I mean, I am gay, and it was just sex.” Sam dropped his gaze because couldn’t quite meet Dean’s eyes.

 

“Oh no. For good boys like you, there’s no such thing as just sex.”

 

“And how do you know that?” growled Sam, suddenly angry because he was afraid Dean was right in saying that Sam was basically a teenage girl.

 

“’Cos I met another one of you. Malcolm Warr. Possibly even more cute than he was ten years ago when Kesselburg got his hooks into him, and still broken up about it like you wouldn’t believe. 

 

“Maybe for some of them it was a straight trade, no fuss no muss. But it screwed Malcolm over. Kesselburg threatened to flunk him and Malcolm was too desperate to be a success to kick up a stink. Problem is, now that he is a success, he doesn’t feel he got there on his own merits. And absolutely nothing I said seemed to change that.”

 

Dean’s hands tensed into fists. Sam lent over to pat his arm.

 

“I’m sorry about your,” Sam paused because he thought maybe boyfriend was the correct term but presuming could lead to black eyes, “your friend.”

 

“It’s fine. There might be nothing I can do for Malcolm, but Kesselburg...” he grinned, all teeth.

 

Sam shifted uncomfortably, “You’re not, like, going to kill him or something?”

 

“Nah,” Dean waved the idea away as if it was ridiculous and Sam relaxed, feeling foolish. Dean’s grin sharpened, “That wouldn’t bother him enough.”

 

“Ooo-kay. You wanna expand on that?”

 

“Kesselburg’s made a fortune from forcing a generation of students to buy the textbooks he’s written. I’m just going spread the wealth around.”

 

“You mean rob him blind.”

 

“Tomato-tomahto,” said Dean cheerfully.

 

“Hmm.”

 

“I can’t help noticing a distinct lack of scandalized shrieking.”

 

Sam shrugged his shoulders. The cops had been picking him up on spec since he topped six foot. He hadn’t wanted to be a lawyer because he respected the law, but because everybody else did.

 

“You’re that gung-ho for revenge?”

 

Sam ran his hand through his hair pushing it away from his face and ducking Dean’s inquisitive eyes. Because it wasn’t exactly that either. Really, he wanted to know how he could find someone willing to commit major felonies on _his_ behalf.

 

“So you in?” Dean prompted, smiling bright and coaxing. 

 

Sam said yes without even meaning to.


	5. Chapter 5

-

 

Dean beamed in reply. “Great, now we need to check out your running speed.”

 

“What?” he demanded, diverted from worrying what exactly he’d signed on for and if he should just back out while there was still time.

 

“Running, geek boy. When you move faster than a slow amble, which is all I’ve seen you manage so far.”

 

“I was drunk,” yelped Sam indignantly.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Everyone’s always, _of course I can run Dean_ , until we’re actually running and then it’s, _oh, oh I’ve got a stitch_ , mugshots and hustling bail money.”

 

Sam laughed at Dean’s disgruntled face, “This happen to you a lot?”

 

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

 

“Do I want to know who exactly you’re running away from?”

 

“The usual.” He shrugged his shoulders, “Cops, security guards, angry fathers, angry _mothers_.”

 

“Aw come on, you’re shitting me now.”

 

“I shit you not. Mrs Carter chased me three streets waving a broom after she caught me with her precious Johnny. Sweet twenty-two and never been kissed by a boy. Totally worth three streets in my boxers.”

 

Sam shook his head and made a mental note not to trust a word out of Dean’s beautifully-shaped mouth.

 

“So come on,” Dean encouraged. “Let’s see if you’re remotely salvageable.”

 

Sam’s head came up at mockery in Dean’s voice, “You really want to turn this into a contest? Dude, my legs are, like, twice as long as yours.”

 

“It isn’t your size that counts, but the motion of the ocean,” he waggled his eyebrows.

 

“Please tell me you did not just say that.”

 

“’S true. Now come on, let’s see what you can do with your size.” Dean grabbed Sam’s wrist and tugged.

 

Sam had intended to go back to bed, curl up under the duvet and hope the world would condescend to ignore him for a while longer. But Dean had niggled away at his pride and woken his innate competiveness. Dean could say size didn’t matter all he liked, but in a foot race, four extra inches of leg kinda did. Dean might not be short, and he’d hauled Sam drunk ass around so he had to be strong, but Sam would crush him like a bug.

 

He let Dean yank him to his feet.

 

Sam tugged on his sneakers. Dean watched him for a second, then quickly slapped a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Tag! You’re it,” he yelled, rabbiting across the room and out the door.

 

After a blank second, Sam got it. He growled,

 

“Oh you are so on,” and took off after him.

 

 

As it happened Dean was fast. His lead let him make out the parking lot and almost manage to dodge down a side street before Sam spotted him. Putting his head down, Sam charged across the gravel lot.

 

Watching Dean’s smooth acceleration, he realized that it wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought it would be to catch the other man. A hundred yards later, legs pumping, blood thrumming, chill air rushing in and out of his lungs, he was actively enjoying himself. Sam grinned, not wanting the chase to end too soon, he dropped his pace back to fast jog.

 

Dean slowed too, and they settled down to just run and run. Tossing his head back, Sam took in the dark night sky and the glowing street lights. His cheeks were cold, his nose was icy and he hadn’t felt this warm in longer than he could remember. He had the absurd urge to laugh.

 

Then Dean took a sharp right and Sam’s mind, which had been mapping the route they were taking almost without him noticing, knew they were heading back towards the motel and that it was time for him to make his move. It galled him to admit it but he wasn’t sure he could pull off a straight-forward overtaking manoeuvre and make it stick. But Dean deserved sneaky so it was all good.

 

The approaching industrial park had a large parking lot. If Sam cut through it and jumped the security fence on the other side, he’d end up one street away from the motel and sanctury before Dean knew what had hit him.

 

Taking three extra deep breaths, he fixed his gaze on the back of Dean’s neck and went for it. Flying across the asphalt, he reached out and, even as he was preparing to turn, managed to brush the tips of his fingers across Dean’s jacket

 

“Tag!” he crowed. His sneakers slid on ground as he spun on the balls of his feet and lit out.

 

“Cheater!” howled Dean. Sam could hear boots skidding as Dean struggled to change direction, then footsteps pounding after him.

 

He vaulted the crash barrier into the lot and kept running. He risked a glanced behind him and saw the barrier hadn’t even slowed Dean down. Dean’s eyes caught his and they both whooped. 

 

Sam whipped his head back around and went full-speed as the fence approached. Flinging himself at the gate, he used his forward momentum to gain as much height as he could, before clambering the rest of the way and swinging himself over top. Landing on the other side, he ran on a few yards before turning to check on Dean. 

 

The other man was already landing cat-footed on Sam’s side of the fence. He looked up and Sam could see his white teeth gleam as he grinned evilly.

 

Sam fled.

 

He sprinted flat out down the street and back to the motel parking lot. As they crunched across the gravel, Sam could hear Dean’s footsteps getting impossibly closer. A smack on his arm startled him as Dean shot past. Sam had no idea where the other man found the reserves from. It was some comfort that Dean didn’t have the breath to do more than huff out, “Tag,” on an exhale, but Sam was not prepared to settle for second.

 

Ignoring his screaming muscles, he forced his legs to power faster. Desperately he stretched out his arms and succeeded in snagging Dean’s shoulders, as Dean threw his body against the door to the room. Sam wrenched him backwards, intending to haul him out the way and get through the door first. But Dean grabbed on tight, trying to use Sam’s weight to spin them around again. Sam held on just as fiercely in return. 

 

For a long moment they teetered together, neither one of them giving ground. Inexorably gravity tightened its grip, sending them crashing across the threshold and thudding side by side into the floor.

 

“Ow, ow, ow,” whined Dean, rolling onto his back to laugh breathlessly at the ceiling.

 

Sam was too worn out to do anything but pant. 

 

The carpet was gritty against his face, his aching legs trembled and his chest heaved for more air. He could hear Dean inching his way across the floor and turned his head until he could see him prop himself into sitting position against the wall. Dean grinned,

 

“C’mon Stretch, you need to move a bit or you’re going to seize up.”

 

Sam moaned, but it was nothing but the truth so he made an effort to shift his arms and legs, flopping about as ungainly as a fish on a river bank. 

 

With a great effort he heaved himself up in to a sitting position, hunched over resting his elbows on his knees. Now that his lungs had stopped aching, he felt suprisingly great. His muscles were the good sort of sore and the cold air seemed to have cleared a fog from around his mind that he hadn’t been aware of until it was gone. 

 

He still couldn’t believe he hadn’t won though.

 

“Man, I’ve been letting myself go. I shoulda pulverised you.” 

 

Sam shook his head in disgust. He hadn’t been exercising much lately but he hadn’t realized it was affecting him so badly. Dean was scarey fast, and that final burst of speed had nearly finshed Sam off, but he should have been able to beat Dean easy, because _four extra inches of leg_. The only good thing was Dean looked about as wrecked as Sam felt.

 

“Thanks,” Dean ruffled his hair and Sam swiped at the annoying hand. “You’re not that bad yourself.”

 

“So maybe I should be believing your stories about running away from half the state.”

 

“Dude, please,” said Dean, sounding offened, “half the country, at least.”

 

Right, thought Sam, back to not a trusting a word.


	6. Chapter 6

Eventually Dean staggered to his feet and crashed into the bathroom. After rustling and running water he emerged and thrust a glass of water at Sam.

 

“Thanks man,” said Sam gratefully, gulping it down. When he looked up Dean was watching him intently. “What?”

 

“Shower.”

 

“Shower?”

 

“As in you need one, badly. Up you get.”

 

Sam pulled back from the encouraging hand. Dean was making a lot of decisions for him, and Sam wasn’t sure he liked that much.

 

“Oh come on, you can’t possibly be objecting to a shower. You look like something the cat dragged in and turned its nose up at.”

 

“Charming.”

 

Dean shrugged his shoulders. “Call it as I see it. But you want to go around looking like Frankenstein’s more disreputable twin, don’t let me stop you.”

 

Sam felt a bit foolish. He did need a shower. He wasn’t even sure how long it had been since he’d last had one. His hair hung in greasy rat tails and his skin felt tacky to touch. He probably didn’t smell too great either. Having a shower would probably be a humanitarian gesture at this point. More than that, he _wanted_ a shower, with scalding hot water and nice-smelling soap. He didn’t even care if that made him a girl.

 

Dean must have seen his decision in his face because he extended his hand again. “Come along, I can’t call you Scarecrow until you look a bit less like one. I’m nice like that.”

 

“Thanks, I think.” Sam accepted the hand and clambered to his feet.

 

Dean beamed up at him, “I am awesome at this sensitivity shit.” 

 

He looked so proud of himself, his face full of such innocent conviction that he truly, truly was. It made Sam want to pat him on the head. Then he thought, screw it, and ran his hand over Dean’s spiky hair.

 

“It’s okay man, you stick with your delusions.”

 

Dean wrinkled his nose, “And soap. Feel free to us lots and lots of soap.”

 

He gave Sam a friendly but emphatic shove towards the bathroom. Sam staggered as he automatically resisted the movement before going along with it.

 

The bathroom was surprisingly good for a motel. After Dean’s comments, he had no shame in rifling the sponge bag squashed in by the sink. He noted the rather excessive number of hair-care products for future teasing, collected what he needed and retreated into the shower. He set the water as hot as he could stand it and just relaxed into bliss. 

 

The heat left him woozy with pleasure, muscles he’d ignored too long relaxed and all the mess and dirt of the past weeks rinsed away down the plughole. Sam could have stayed there forever but, reluctantly, he decided he probably better get out. The temptation to start singing was becoming unmanageable and he didn’t think Dean would appreciate out of tune Bad Company.

 

Clambering out, he began to scrub himself dry with the towel, humming softly. He was drying his feet, and wincing at the state of his toenails, when Dean started banging on the door. 

 

He ignored him. 

 

Dean banged louder.

 

Finally Sam wrapped the towel around his waist and yanked at the door.

 

“What?” he demanded poking his head around the edge of the door.

 

Dean held up a neatly folded heap of clothes. “Clean clothes. Cause your’s need serious fumigation.”

 

“Oh, okay.” Sam grabbed the heap of soft cotton and disappeared back behind the door. The track pants were ‘one-size fits all’ which was never quite true for Sam but these were close enough. The t-shirt and hoodie must have been the largest Dean owned but they were tight across the shoulders when Sam pulled them on. He checked himself in the mirror and sighed at his reflection because he looked like a moron who’d shrunk all his clothes in the wash. 

 

“Hey Scarecrow,” the awesomely sensitive Dean greeted him as he emerged from the bathroom. “Geez, didn’t you find the comb? You look like you got crows _nesting_ in that mess.”

 

Sam tugged at his dishelved hair self-consciously. “No, cause somebody, who shall remain nameless, started pounding on the door like the place was on fire.”

 

“If I’d realized you were a girl, I’d have left you for longer.” Dean wandered into bathroom and came out with a wide double-toothed comb. “There you go, Princess. If the pizza turns up my wallet’s on the TV.” 

 

Dean disappeared back into the bathroom and Sam heard the shower come on. He started to try and drag his hair into some sort of order.

 

The rap on the door startled him, but remembering Dean’s comment, he grabbed the black leather wallet and, delving into the wedge of notes, answered the door. A man in motor cycle leathers and helmet thrust two warm, delicious smelling cardboard boxes at him,

 

“Two Vegetarian Supremes with double pepperoni.”

 

“How much?” 

 

Sam completely missed whatever the courier answered, too caught up in the discovery that the wad of what he thought were tens was actually a wad of hundreds. Jesus Christ, but Dean had to have something like five thousand bucks in there.

 

He shoved two twenties he found near the front of the stack at the courier and grabbed the boxes.

 

“Thanks,” he said, smiling insincerely. “Keep the change.”

 

He shut the door and flicked the catch into place, carefully placed the pizza on the table and went right back to the wallet to check his eyes hadn’t deceived him. 

 

They hadn’t. After a quick count he found Dean had six thousand, five hundred and thirty-eight dollars, in cash.

 

Dean had six thousand, two hundred and thirty-eight dollars in his wallet and he’d just left it there for Sam to go through. Had he forgotten how much was in there, or what? 

 

Sam discarded the idea that the amount of money was not worth bothering about to Dean. Firstly, that amount of money was always worth bothering about. Secondly, Dean was staying in a motel at the wrong end of the wrong end of town, no way would he be doing that if he was wealthy.

 

Then he remembered why Dean was in town and decided Dean had probably ditched his credit cards for the trip to avoid leaving a record of his visit. So, as incredible as it seemed, he probably _had_ just forgotten how much cash he had stashed away.

 

Satisfied with this theory, Sam replaced the wallet on the top of television, and turned his attention to the pizza. As soon as the first bite hit his stomach he realized he was starving and he tore his way through the first slice. He slowed down for the second slice, because he forgotten how good eating felt. Melted cheese and rich tomato, chewy bread and the sharp pepperoni.

 

“So,” said Dean, “I should’ve got three pizzas.”

 

“Huh?” Sam licked a smear of tomato sauce of the base of his thumb. Glancing up, he saw Dean had left the bathroom, redressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. He’d shaved too and without the stubble he looked so young that any bar would unhesitatingly card him.

 

Then Dean rolled his eyes and projected such exasperated patience that he gained at least five years and Sam felt less like a pervert for noticing just how well he fitted his jeans.

 

Dean gestured eloquently at the pizza box on Sam’s lap. The empty pizza box.

 

“Uh,” stumbled Sam, as he tried to change gears. Deciding the best defense was a good offence, he said. “Just how long were you in the shower for anyway? Princess.”

 

“Not that long,” Dean fluttered his eyelashes, “unlike some people, I look this good naturally.”

 

That stymied him, because there was no way Sam wanted to get into a discussion about exactly how good Dean looked, particularly now, when Dean still shiny and wet from his shower.

 

Sam went back to food, it seemed safer. “And who orders a vegetarian pizza with pepperoni? That doesn’t even make sense.”

 

“You gotta eat your veggies.”

 

“Right,” said Sam. He considered trying to explain that the sad specimens on top of a pizza did not count as vegetables, but gave it up as a lost cause.

 

“Hey, if you’re going to be picky, you clearly don’t want any of my pizza.”

 

Sam’s eyes zeroed in on the slice of pizza in Dean’s hand.


End file.
